The Honeymoon: Sleeping with Secrets

By Evalyn Anderson

Derek would never forgive me if I spoiled our honeymoon by getting myself killed, Gale tells her financial agent T. Price Smith as he hands her a gun under the table. Gale is on her honeymoon In London, but it looks like shell spend more time with T. Price than with Derek as the two of them try to save the bank that holds practically all her assets. Shes kept her wealth secret from Derek for fear of spoiling their relationship, so what believable excuse can she find to spend enough time away from him to stop criminals from siphoning off all her assets? Luckily, Derek is so enthralled by going the rounds of the courts and Inns of Court with a British solicitor friend, he feels guilty for leaving her on her own to go sightseeing! She manages to defeat the criminals without tipping off Derek, and enjoy three whole days of honeymoon. T. Price admires her ability to meet all her objectives. Why would I have ever thought that you would have a conventional honeymoon? he asks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479772643

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Copyright © 2013 by Evalyn Anderson.

ISBN:                Softcover                978-1-4797-7263-6

                          Ebook                     978-1-4797-7264-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

To my Readers who have requested more Gale Blackburn

adventures and to those who are meeting her

for the first time.

Chapter One

What on earth am I doing, I wondered, as I rose from breakfast with Derek at the London Marriott. How could a happy bride be planning to sneak out to meet another man while her beloved groom spent the day at the Old Bailey? But I can explain, I said to an invisible questioner. I laughed to myself at the thought.

We were headed for the lounge when a distinguished-looking middle-aged man walked up to Derek. He held out his hand. So good to see you again, Derek.

Wonderful to see you, Paul, Derek replied. This is my wife, Gale. Gale, this is Paul Roundtree.

It’s a distinct pleasure to meet you, Gale. I’m sorry to take Derek away from you on your honeymoon. I told him you were very welcome to accompany us, but he said you had other plans.

Yes. I thought I’d do some sightseeing and shopping while you give Derek a ‘busman’s holiday.’ I hope to visit the Old Bailey before we leave.

You must plan on it. I insist on showing you around there.

Thank you. I will look forward to that.

After watching them walk out into the street in animated conversation, I went upstairs to get my purse. For a moment, I wished that I were going with them. After all, this was my honeymoon. Why couldn’t I spend all of it with my husband? Unfortunately, I’d been raised to believe that duty has to come before pleasure.

I’d been taken by surprise when my friend and financial agent, T. Price Smith, had pulled me aside at my wedding reception and said, Gale, can you manage to get away from Derek long enough to meet me for lunch in London?

Why? I’d asked.

I didn’t want to worry you before your wedding, but I’ve heard some ugly rumors about the bank you partly own. I have an investigator in London checking into it; he’ll fill me in, and I’ll report to you when you arrive.

My bank? I’d asked, trying to focus on something other than my forthcoming honeymoon. T. Price, who had a brokerage in Hong Kong, took care of the London trust account.

I want to get your input about anything I find out. This may be a bit more than mere peculation by somebody in the bank, if the rumors are correct. I might need your authorization for necessary action beyond my usual duties as agent.

Darn, T. Price! I’d protested. You know how much I hate thinking about money, and to think about it on my honeymoon is a bit too much!

He’d shrugged. If you don’t mind losing all those millions, I do. I’m your agent; it’s my duty to keep you from losing money. It would ruin my reputation if any of my clients lost money. So far, none of them ever have.

I’d shaken myself to be sure I wasn’t dreaming, then said, Okay. Derek is meeting a solicitor friend the day after we arrive. They have all kinds of things planned. I’m sure they’ll not be too unhappy if I cut out of some of them. Where and when do we meet?

At eleven o’clock at a teashop next to the Millenium Hotel. It’s usually nearly deserted at that time, though I don’t know why. That’s the usual morning tea break time, but maybe that shop just isn’t popular. If it’s not private enough there, I can rent a room at the hotel.

Okay. That hotel wasn’t there when I knew London well, but I think I can find it.

All the taxi drivers know where the hotel is. The teashop is down some steps to the left of the hotel entrance.

He had moved away then, leaving me to recover from this bombshell. I’d never dreamed that there could be a problem with the London bank since it was private, and I owned nearly half of it. I’d always thought of it as the final resting place for other monies if governments got too difficult about large deposits. Now I would have to worry about the bank on my honeymoon. What a honeymoon!

Returning my thoughts to our luxurious Marriott room, I took a last look at myself in the full length mirror. Nearing forty, a lifetime of physical exercise, healthy diet and nutritional supplements have left me looking like I’m in my late twenties or early thirties. I wear very little make-up, and keep my platinum blonde hair short, styled so I don’t have to do anything but shampoo it in the shower. I was wearing a green and blue floral dress with a plain blue jacket which matched my eyes. Part of my trousseau, it would join my court reporting wardrobe when I returned home.

I’d hidden my briefcase in my luggage so Derek wouldn’t wonder why I’d need a briefcase on my honeymoon. Now, I transferred the papers related to the bank from the briefcase to a rather large purse I’d bought for that purpose after my discussion with T. Price.

The taxi driver found the hotel without a problem. Following his directions, I descended a flight of stairs and entered the tea shop. T. Price, impeccably dressed in a Savile Row suit set off by a subtly colored shirt and tie, was sitting at a table in the corner. Only one other couple was on the premises, seated near the door. T. Price rose as I entered. Good to see you again.

Likewise, I replied. The solitary waitress, dressed in a black uniform with white apron, came over and placed menus in front of us as soon as I was seated.

They do excellent sandwiches here, as well as cakes, T. Price volunteered.

We might as well lunch here, I decided, if a light lunch is adequate for you.

It would be just right. A client is giving a dinner in my honor tonight. I wasn’t able to get out of it. I hope it doesn’t interfere with my efforts to check on what’s happening bank-wise.

I studied the menu. Ham and chutney sandwich, I decided, with a pot of oolong tea.

When the waitress arrived, T. Price ordered the same for both of us.

When she’d left, he said, This is a good place for a conference unless it should get busy. If you think it’s private enough, I’ll go ahead and tell you what I’ve found out.

Fine, I replied, looking at his handsome face, framed by straight silky black hair, his blue eyes startling under coal black brows. High cheekbones suggested the touch of Asian Steppes in his ancestry.

I hope we don’t have to upset Derek’s delicate nervous system, but it looks like we’re into something that might take a lot of your time away from him.

I ignored his criticism of Derek. That peaceful, secure world which framed Derek’s character was as alien to T. Price as if it were on another planet. The two of them had been barely civil to each other during the wedding events. Everything has worked out beautifully, actually, for at least a day or two, I replied. A couple of years ago, Derek worked with an English solicitor in Orlando on an international contracts case. As soon as he sent him an e-mail to tell him we’d be in London, this fellow just went to town lining up court visits, dining at the Inns of Court, the whole bit, so he’ll be busy.

These fascinating adventures don’t include the lovely bride?

They could, but it didn’t bother him too much when I suggested he go alone and I’d spend my time touring art galleries, shopping and taking short sight-seeing trips. He probably feels relieved that he and his friend can talk shop without having to explain everything to me.

But you had two years of law school! he protested.

I’ve never told Derek that, I explained.

He looked surprised. Why conceal your law school education, since he’s a lawyer?

I attended law school under a different identity. Derek would accept my explanation of changes of identity, I think, but his friends would want to know which law school, and my boss would be unhappy that I’d been court reporting under false colors. A lot of her clients would not want a court reporter with a legal background. It would complicate life unnecessarily if I mentioned it.

He shrugged. Your life has always been complicated. Why would I have ever thought that you would have a conventional honeymoon anyway? I was actually surprised that you had a conventional marriage ceremony in church.

Our waitress came with fresh tea and our sandwiches. When she left, I sighed and said, I guess it’s just not in my stars to live an ordinary life, though I figured on one when Derek asked me to marry him.

I’ve known you a long time, and I’ve never known you to fantasize about anything till now, especially not anything as unlikely as your living an ordinary life. But I guess that love can make even the most practical people in the world go mad.

You’ve never been there yourself? I asked, innocently.

Never! he replied, emphatically.

I raised an eyebrow. That reply sounded like he might have had a bitter experience with a woman. Of course, I would never invade his privacy by asking him about his private life.

He cleared his throat. Enough chitchat. Now, to get down to work, even though it is your honeymoon. I hope you smuggled your stiletto in somehow. We may need it.

For a bank problem? I asked, incredulously. Actually, I had smuggled it in, using a special holster built into the false lead-lined bottom of my suitcase. I felt naked without some sort of weapon.

This is a little more than peculation of funds, though I’m sure there’s plenty of that. In fact, that’s undoubtedly how it started.

I focused all my attention on him.

I didn’t want to worry you in advance, but rumors about a merger of the bank reached me in a roundabout way in Hong Kong. The fact that I, the agent of the co-owner, hadn’t been contacted, threw up a bright red flag. Thus, the stop-over on my way to the States. I hired an investigator who sniffed around quietly and kept in touch with me by e-mail while I was attending that most peculiar and lavish affair in Orlando.

Peculiar? I raised my eyebrows.

That’s the first wedding invitation I’ve ever received with a note appended saying, ‘please don’t wear your Savile Row suit. Have a Hong Kong tailor run up something for you.’

Oh, that! I exclaimed. I didn’t want you to upstage the groom. You came close anyway in that black silk suit.

We’ll drop the peculiar, but you can’t deny that it was lavish. That was the first wedding I’ve ever attended, and I’ve attended weddings of billionaires, which started two weeks early with two prenuptial feasts.

Since neither Derek nor I have family and friends scattered all over the United States, like most people do, it seemed easier to stagger the wedding events, I explained. I would never tell anyone that I’d planned it like that to keep Derek from becoming exhausted, or even ill. He has to pace himself due to his ‘vampire disease.’

That explains the staggered events, but I’m still having difficulty understanding why you invited practically the entire county bar, not to mention all the local court reporters. That champagne fountain and filet mignon dinner must have cost a fortune. Not to mention the identical repast, minus the fountain, for your friends from the Mission. I know you can afford it, but you’re usually so frugal. It’s not your style.

I did it for Derek and in memory of Mama and Papa. Mama always dreamed of my having an elaborate wedding. She and Papa had never been able to marry because of their fear of leaving a paper trail. They opened a special account when I was very young that was to be used solely for my wedding. Lavish as everything was, I still didn’t use the entire amount.

Left to your own preferences, I’ll bet you’d have been happy to get married in a nice suit during Sunday service, have a cake and champagne at the parish hall afterwards, and invite a handful of close friends to lunch.

I sighed. You’re right. But Derek had dreamed of me walking down the aisle toward him in a fabulous gown the night we met, though he didn’t tell me that till four years later. I couldn’t disappoint him.

Before he could comment further, the waitress arrived with the dessert cart.

You must try their marzipan bun; it’s fabulous, he urged.

All right. I’ll try it, though their date cake looks good.

T. Price made a choking sound. The waitress and I looked at him in alarm. Sorry, he said, sheepishly. I think I swallowed my tea the wrong way.

She put the buns on plates in front of us and left.

Another couple walked in, looked about, and took a table at the opposite end of the room.

What was that choking business all about? I asked, curiously.

When anybody mentions the word ‘date,’ I feel like throwing up.

Why? I asked, puzzled.

It brings back memories of that awful thirst, drinking my own pee, eating dates, and forcing myself to put each thousand pound foot in front of the other for what seemed like an eternity.

Oh, you’re thinking of our little hike in the Gobi. You should like dates; after all, they saved our lives.

Yeah. I remember how that stupid Jake the Fourth something or other argued with Papa about carrying so many of them on the plane, not to mention all the water.

Fortunately, Papa ignored his complaints. I wasn’t sure, myself, why Papa bought so many dates and so much water, but he said we’d need them if we crashed in the desert and survived. He always prepared for the worst whenever he started a project.

Papa was a fantastic planner and innovator, he commented. Every time I find myself in a tight place, I ask myself what he would do. It always helps me.

He had a peculiar knack for visualizing almost everything necessary for an operation all at once, just as soon as he began to think of it, I explained.

He laughed suddenly. I’ll never forget the look on your face when you found that that idiot Jake had thrown his date pack down along the way several hours before he told you.

I guess I was angry and disgusted, especially when he made light of it and said he wasn’t going to pack dates like a donkey. He was mad at Papa anyway, because Papa tried to keep him off the flight. Papa kept telling him he should wait for the next legal flight to Korea, a few weeks later. Jake was bored with where we were, and wanted to get out quickly. He didn’t seem to understand the danger should we be spotted by the military, who would shoot us down. Papa always suspected that he gave the pilot a big bribe to take him. After all, money was nothing to him. He was getting his post-Harvard adventure year in before going home to take a place in his father’s firm.

T. Price shrugged. Well, he had his adventure all right. It was ironical, wasn’t it, that we made it beyond the danger area, only to crash from a mechanical failure?

But not totally unexpected. That’s why Papa provisioned us for a crash. He was quite dubious about how well that illicit plane was maintained, in addition to the high possibility of being shot down by the military.

Why did he take it, then, especially since he was risking your life, too?

He gave me an option to get out another way that would have taken months, but been safer. I chose to go with him. He chose that particular flight because the pilot was outstanding. You recall how he got us down after the engine failed, don’t you?

I’ll never forget it! If he were still alive, I’d hire him today. He was a genius at flying planes.

Papa always regretted that he couldn’t force himself back to consciousness in time to keep him and the guy we were rescuing from bleeding to death, I commented.

God! That was awful! I was lying there trapped under the luggage rack. I could see the blood spurting out of the pilot’s leg, but I couldn’t move. Actually, I thought I was paralyzed. I could see Papa’s face, and I was sure that he was dead till he suddenly opened his eyes and looked at me. Within minutes he was up and had a tourniquet around the pilot’s leg, but it was too late.

Papa didn’t realize that at first because, as soon as he finished the tourniquet, he’d rushed to the side of the dissident, whose arm was spurting blood. Papa’s tourniquet would have saved the pilot if he hadn’t been impaled on a piece of the plane. He was on his back so Papa didn’t know about it at first.

That accident was one of those freak events, T. Price mused. You and Papa weren’t injured at all except for a blow to the head that made him lose consciousness for a few minutes, and you had bruises all over you. When you freed me from the luggage rack, it turned out that my legs were just badly bruised and sore. Jake the Fourth had a superficial wound on his arm, and that other guy who lasted for a couple of days had no visible injuries. Why do you think he died?

Papa was never sure. It could have been a severe shock to the system which took a couple of days to finish him off, or maybe some internal injury that Papa couldn’t find, or a combination of shock, fright, internal injury and desert heat and exhaustion.

Other than the three of us, the lucky ones were the ones who died in the crash. I’ll never forget the screams of that poor young man who died slowly.

He was screaming for his mother.

How do you know that?

He was screaming in one of the two languages I learned for the trip. Papa and I didn’t have much time to learn languages after we were notified that there was a chance for getting the dissident out. We had to really cram and concentrate on vocabulary we’d be likely to need. Papa took two that were widely spoken. I learned one spoken in the area where we got the plane and one widely spoken nomadic language so we could communicate with locals in case we had to. Of course, the situation was so dicey, communication might not have helped us.

What did Mama think of such a hair-brained rescue scheme?

She would never have let us do it if the dissident hadn’t been Papa’s oldest friend. They went all through school together, then were in college and medical school together. The irony is that of all the dissident rescues we tried, the only one where we had a personal interest in the dissident is the only one that wasn’t successful.

My worst nightmare is reliving that crash, watching people die, hearing them scream, even Jake out in the desert later, though I found it hard to sympathize with him. It always ends with my walking away, looking back at the vultures circling the bodies we’d laid out in a row after you’d photographed them and taken some of their things for future identification.

I stared at him. Gee, T. Price, I had no idea you were so traumatized by that experience. I don’t recall your ever mentioning nightmares when you lived with us.

I did my best to keep you and Papa and Mama from finding out. This is the first time I’ve ever mentioned them to anybody. He shuddered. "Everything about that trip was awful. I remember that I nearly cried when Papa pulled my knapsack off my back, threw out a fortune in heroin I’d been hired to transport, and filled it with dates.

I recognized the truth when he said that I could live on dates for several days, but not heroin. But I knew that if I survived the desert, I’d end up being killed by the guy who was waiting for the heroin.

Fortunately, the story that circulated later was that the plane had crashed and nobody had seen any survivors, I said.

I always suspected that Papa had bribed the nomads to keep their mouths shut, but I never asked him.

I